Once Yours, Now Mine by Chelsea M. Fieschel
I sit in the living room with my back against the couch. My body is pulled together,
tucked under my favorite fuzzy blanket, with only my toes poking out. The lights are dimmed in
the living room, offering a bit of comfort. Last minute laundry has filled the air with the smell of
fresh, clean linen. All day today, she has been cleaning, scrubbing and wiping away at the house.
Showing signs she is stressed. I look out the window directly across from me and notice the sky
has gone black, and soft, white flakes fall softly down. There is no longer green grass, just white
snow. It’s an unusually cold night, even for the Alaskan forest. I pull my tired eyes away from
the view and look to my mom who is mechanically folding away at different size towels and
pajama bottoms. At the end of the couch, at the bottom of a stack of laundry, is a pale, yellow
square. A pale, yellow square that I have seen every single night since I could remember,
something too, that will be missing from our home for some time. I take a moment to watch her,
evaluate her. I’ve never noticed the grey hairs that have started to appear around her temple. Nor
have I never noticed the dark circles under her deep colored brown eyes, any doubt from lack of
sleep. As if my thoughts were spoken out loud, my mom focuses her eyes on me and my sleepy
stance; I can only imagine what she sees when she looks at me. No doubt I show my own signs
of sleepless nights. I have the urge to just walk upstairs and curl into my own bed. Sleep away
the night, and start fresh in the morning.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to bed sweetie? I’m sure dad will understand.”
I think about taking her up on her offer, quickly snatching up the pale, yellow square and
booking it to my room, but I know it is best that I stay now and steal later. Chelsea M. Fieschel
“I’m sure he’s almost done packing, I don’t mind staying up a little longer.” I reply with a small
white lie. Nights like tonight aren’t unusual by any means. It’s my dad’s job to fight and protect.
It’s a life my family and I have grown accustomed to. Still, I feel the need to wait out the night as
long as possible, so I can say goodbye again, and look forward to another welcome home later.
While lost in my own thoughts, my attention is brought to the sound of my dad’s heavy work
boots hitting the carpeted stairs that lead down to where my mom and I patiently wait for him. I
look to the clock and notice it is 10:55 PM. Amazing how time flies, even when you rather it not.
“Are you ready to go?” My mom asks my dad
“Yeah, just let me say goodbye,” my dad answers
“I’ll go ahead and put these clothes away in the bedroom then.” My mom says over her shoulder
as she ascends the stairs.
My dad turns to me and in that moment I try and memorize everything about him. I look at his
salt and pepper hair, his clean shaven chin and his sea foam green eyes. Eyes that match mine so
perfectly. As if in slow motion, I watch as my dad walks over to where I sit pressed up against
the couch, lean over and put his rough, callused hands under my arms and pick me up to throw
me on his hip. My blanket almost slips, but at the last minute I manage to keep it from hitting the
floor.
“Are you ready to go to bed?” my dad asks me in a whisper as he turns toward the stairs again. I
nod, not sure if my voice would work, due to the knot of emotion in my throat. Nights like
tonight may not be unusual for my family and I, but that doesn’t mean it makes it any easier. I
look to my mom, just before my dad starts to ascend the stairs, and notice her wiping away a
small, salty tear right under her eye. My dad walks slowly and for that I am thankful. It is little Chelsea M. Fieschel
moments like these that I will forever remember. We reach my room, the makeshift stars
glowing on the ceiling, giving off some light, so my dad is able to reach my twin size bed easily.
He pulls back the covers, lays me down, and proceeds to tuck me in and makes sure my mound
of stuffed animals are comfortable as well. He gives way a small smile, knowing it’s because he
thinks I’m silly when I insist my stuffed animals have to sleep with me; I give a small smile as
well, sharing a small happy moment in a sad situation. As he leans down to kiss me on my
forehead, a small tear escapes my eye.
“How long will you be gone this time daddy?” I ask.
“Only a short time, I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Will you send me cards?”
“Of course sweetie.” And with that, he wishes me goodnight and closes the door just enough to
block out the light from downstairs. As I hear his footsteps hit the kitchen floor downstairs along
with my moms, I suck in a breath of bravery and crawl out of bed. As I reach the door, I am slow
to open it, knowing it will creak with age and give me away to my mom and dad. I have to be
careful with each step as well, the house is old and quick to show it with a little pressure of even
a child’s foot. My parent’s room is not far from mine, but it feels like a million years before I
finally reach the door to their room. With the door fully open, I don’t have to risk being heard as
I silently walk over to my dad’s side of the bed where my mom carefully placed the laundry she
just did at the end of the bed. On it, even in the dark, I can see the dull glow of my dad’s favorite
tattered, yellow blanket. I don’t know the story behind the old, musky blanket, but I know it’s a
blanket my dad does not go a night without. In one small motion, I whisk the holey blanket up Chelsea M. Fieschel
and make my way back to the entrance of the room. There I stand silently, hearing my mom
sniffle and my dad pack his duffle bag in the car. So far, so good I think.
As I walk back to my room, I wrap the light feeling blanket around my small body and
am surprised, that even being freshly washed, that I am overcome by my dad’s aftershave and
manly cologne. So much so, it makes me start to cry, knowing this blanket is the only thing I will
have as remembrance until he gets back. Right as I reach my bed and manage to rearrange
myself to a comfortable position, I hear my dad ascend the stairs again, no doubt getting
something last minute that he forgot to pack. I wait and I listen as my dad rummages through the
bedroom. Moments later, I hear him leaning over the railing by the stairs to ask my mom if she
has seen his yellow blanket. Of course she hasn’t, and with that my dad abandons the search and
walks back down stairs. I hear the garage door close, which brings me little comfort and a lot of
sadness. I lay in bed, tears creating puddles on my pillowcase and snot clogging my nose. I pull
out my dad’s yellow blanket, at first hidden under my stuffed animals just in case an unexpected
intruder approached, and hold it up against my cheek.
